


A Dish Best Served (Naked) Cold

by Dustbunnygirl



Series: Revenge Series [3]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-16
Updated: 2008-05-16
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You know, I was a sweet, innocent, pure-minded soul before Torchwood. Any deviant thoughts expressed by me in the intervening months are all the fault of RTD, the folks at the BBC, and the cast of Torchwood. All your fault! </p><p>And now, on to the smut!</p><p>Title: A Dish Best Served <s>Naked</s> Cold (sequel to Ianto's Revenge), prompt 7 of 10<br/>Prompt:His Place, "the 10s" challenge. (I might’ve stretched the interpretation of this particular prompt just a little. Apologies)<br/>Fandom: Torchwood<br/>Pairing: Jack/Ianto<br/>Rating: R-NC17 (I never know how high to rate these things exactly and I’d rather err on the side of caution). Discussions of things of a sexual nature. Someone gets a little “touchy-feely” with themselves. Owen swears, a lot.<br/>Word count: 2,716<br/>Warnings: Smut, of course, of a slash sort. Mild-ish spoilers for 2x4 – “Meat”. Improper use of Jack’s coat.<br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back. Eventually.<br/>Summary: "Sending everyone else home early. Be in my office ten minutes after they all leave, wearing the contents of this bag and just the contents of this bag. Make yourself comfortable at my desk. Prop your feet up. Relax. And wait for me."</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Dish Best Served (Naked) Cold

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I was a sweet, innocent, pure-minded soul before Torchwood. Any deviant thoughts expressed by me in the intervening months are all the fault of RTD, the folks at the BBC, and the cast of Torchwood. All your fault! 
> 
> And now, on to the smut!
> 
> Title: A Dish Best Served ~~Naked~~ Cold (sequel to Ianto's Revenge), prompt 7 of 10  
>  Prompt:His Place, "the 10s" challenge. (I might’ve stretched the interpretation of this particular prompt just a little. Apologies)  
> Fandom: Torchwood  
> Pairing: Jack/Ianto  
> Rating: R-NC17 (I never know how high to rate these things exactly and I’d rather err on the side of caution). Discussions of things of a sexual nature. Someone gets a little “touchy-feely” with themselves. Owen swears, a lot.  
> Word count: 2,716  
> Warnings: Smut, of course, of a slash sort. Mild-ish spoilers for 2x4 – “Meat”. Improper use of Jack’s coat.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back. Eventually.  
> Summary: "Sending everyone else home early. Be in my office ten minutes after they all leave, wearing the contents of this bag and just the contents of this bag. Make yourself comfortable at my desk. Prop your feet up. Relax. And wait for me."

Ianto was cold, which he assumed was a natural state for someone in his position to be. Sure, the coat – yes, that coat, the coat – helped, even if it was an inch or two too long in the shoulders, and the boots kept his feet warm enough, but there was only so much that could be expected of a knee-length wool greatcoat and a pair of hiking boots, especially in the damp and chill confines of – as John had called it – the Palace Under the Pavement. 

Especially when said coat and boots were the only things (save his stopwatch, and that wasn’t exactly helping) between him and the elements.

Especially when there was a lovely draft coming right up the back of said coat thanks to the aforementioned damp and chill.

Ianto shifted in Jack’s chair, behind Jack’s desk, trying to find an angle where the breeze – and he couldn’t figure out where that was coming from to save his soul, by the way – wouldn’t have such a straightforward shot at his bare arse. Closing the office door would have helped. Having his feet propped on the desktop as they were only made it easier for the breeze to have its way with him, he knew, but he couldn’t close the door and he couldn’t shift his feet down, either. Jack’s instructions had been specific.

**

It was a little over twenty-four hours since the packing plant, since they’d watched the creature writhe and howl and finally die. The team, as always, chose to cope in different ways. Gwen, still defiant, had taken the rest of the week off to tend to Rhys and avoid Jack. Owen, still predictable, chose alcohol and avoidance of a different sort, changing the topic or leaving the room whenever anyone tried to broach the subject. Tosh, still besotted, hovered in the wings, waiting for any opportunity to comfort or fuss over Owen and convince him through her nurturing ways that she was the woman for him. Jack turned to brooding because, life changing trip with the Doctor or not, he was still Jack and brooding was just what he did. 

Ianto had things of his own to deal with, like a gun that never went off pressed against his head and the dark and welcome surge of adrenaline that had rushed through him when he stun gunned Mark and watched him twitch himself unconscious on the office floor. He’d thought, over the last few months, that he’d chased off most of the darkness that settled in after Canary Wharf. But maybe he’d just been deluding himself.

Ianto was so caught up in the wondering that he didn’t hear Jack step up behind him at the coffee machine, didn’t know he had company until his hips were caught by a pair of large hands, warm breath and playful teeth at his ear. 

“I’m pretty sure groping your employees at the coffee machine still counts for harassment, Sir,” he said, willing himself not to lean back into the solid, warm body behind him. Jack, the bastard, made all Ianto’s willpower moot by pressing forward against him. Warmth stuttered against the back of his neck and his cheek as Jack laughed.

“If you think this is groping, then I’m losing my touch.” As if to prove his point, Jack let one of his hands slide away from Ianto’s hip, settling instead over one firm, trouser-covered cheek and squeezing. “Now that…”

“Get you something, Sir?” Ianto asked, using the opportunity presented by the removed hand to slide out of Jack’s clutches and busy himself arranging mugs on a tray. Jack leaned against the machine, boneless and casual despite only a fraction of his weight actually resting against the coveted appliance.

“You did good yesterday,” he said, tone as relaxed and unremarkable as his posture despite the lack of anything remotely leisurely in the gaze he had fixed on the youngest member of his team. 

“I believe the proper grammar is ‘You did well’,” Ianto corrected without looking up from the shuffle of ceramic over silver.

“All right. You did well yester-“

“I almost killed someone, Jack. An - at the time - unarmed someone. I know this job’s firmly in the gray area on the morality scale, but I still don’t think that’s quite something that should have the ‘well’ ticky box checked on a performance review.”

Jack stood straighter, arms crossed over his chest in what had become known as his “thoughtful” pose. By “had become known”, of course, Ianto meant “had been named as such by the rest of the team during Jack’s long and unannounced ‘going to fuck off and not warn any of you in advance because I’m a selfish bastard’ absence.” Yes, Ianto still retained some measure of bitterness over that. Justifiably so, in his opinion. 

“This at the time unarmed someone. Wouldn’t be the same someone that had stuck a gun in your face and pulled the trigger, would it?”

Ianto blinked. “Well, yes, but-“

“The same someone that had shot a civilian, had threatened the rest of the team, had held an innocent lifeform captive for who knows how long while slicing it up like a Christmas goose?”

“Jack, that’s hardly the –“

“Did I mention you’ve never looked so hot as you did busting out of those ropes?”

This time, when Ianto blinked it was because his rant – and, more importantly, his brain – had been derailed by that single sentence. “I don’t really think this is the time to –“

Jack was on the move, nearly prowling across the foot or two of distance Ianto had earned himself. His stare, fixated on Ianto’s eyes and unblinking, was hot enough to melt steel. “You had this look in your eye, this darkness, this ferocity.” There was no distance anymore. Jack’s thigh pressed against Ianto’s, his mouth close enough to warm Ianto’s skin with every exhale. Jack sighed and Ianto couldn’t stop himself from trembling at the sound. “All I could think about last night, the only thing that kept me from thinking about that creature and the hell this planet put it through, was that look.”

Jack grabbed Ianto’s wrist, prying his hand off Owen’s mug and pressing it against the front of his trousers. Ianto’s breath came out in a hiss.

“Jack…”

“I imagined what it would be like if you turned that look on me. That’s all I’ve thought about all day, the only thought that didn’t have me wanting to crawl out of my skin.” His voice turned into a growl, low and thick with want. “I’ve been half hard all day thinking about submitting to that look.”

Ianto tried to laugh, but it came out a half-choked cough instead. “Feels like more than half,” he joked, eyes fixated on Jack’s chin so they didn’t have to meet the intensity in the Captain’s stare. Jack cupped his chin, tilting Ianto’s head back up so he couldn’t look away.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about a little role reversal now and then.” Jack’s tone was soft, little more than a whisper between them, but there was an order hidden within the words. A challenge. “Tell me you haven’t gotten off on the thought of leaning back in my chair and playing Captain for a few hours. Owning me, ordering me to – “

Someone cleared their throat from a few feet away. Both men turned to find Tosh standing near the rail, an important-looking folder clutched tightly to her chest and a blush turning her pink from collarbone to hairline and her eyes more or less glued to where Ianto’s hand cupped Jack’s cock through his trousers. Ianto jerked his hand away and drew his other, more well behaved one through his hair.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just wanted a cup of cock - coffee! I meant coffee. Oh God…”

Ianto ran for the Archives so fast he should’ve left a cartoon dust trail in his wake.

When he risked an appearance in the tourist office two hours later, there was a paper sacked bundle waiting for him in his chair. As he dumped the contents onto the table he found his hiking boots – left behind in the Hub without care after the incident in Brecon Beacons – wrapped up in Jack’s coat, all topped by a rough-edged note written on a quarter torn from a UNIT memo. Jack’s expansive handwriting fought with the bland font for prominence on the page.

“Sending everyone else home early. Be in my office ten minutes after they all leave, wearing the contents of this bag and just the contents of this bag. Make yourself comfortable at my desk. Prop your feet up. Relax. And wait for me. –J.”

Ianto ran his fingers over the rough wool and smiled before hiding his parcel beneath his desk. The minute Owen and Tosh shut the door behind themselves he hit the button on his stopwatch. Ten minutes.

**

Twenty minutes later he was still waiting, cold and apprehensive and wishing Jack would hurry up already. The Hub was empty, no alarms were going off, Janet had been fed and tucked in – as much as Weevils ever were tucked in – for the night. There was nothing to have distracted Jack from the scenario he’d orchestrated, nothing to delay him from the nearly naked Ianto two steps from shivering in his office. Ianto’s feet were starting to fall asleep, going tingly and numb inside his boots. Among the list of “incredibly sexy things to do with Jack after hours,” loss of feeling in his extremities and hyperthermia weren’t included. 

He was beginning to think it was all Jack’s idea of a joke, really, with little evidence thus far to the contrary.

Ianto shifted his left leg, trying to reestablish the circulation in his big toe, and possibly his pinky toe while he was at it, when it happened. He barely shifted his leg, just a centimeter or so to the right, enough to make the material of the coat dip and let the wool slip against his dick. The friction after the wait, the anticipation, the tingling working its way up his ankles, felt like heaven. Felt so good he shifted his hips inside the coat just to make it do it again. And again. And a…

Fetishizing Jack’s coat wasn’t new. The smell of it – 51st Century pheromones and rain water and the hint of gun oil that lingered near the cuffs in between dry cleanings – the feel of it, the way it fit to Jack’s body, made the patched together old wool into a tangible, ever-present aphrodisiac. Ianto knew every fold, every repaired tear, every loose string and reattached button as well as he knew his lover’s body. Sometimes, in some dreams, the coat was Jack and Jack was the coat and Ianto would fondle it and tease it and stroke it until navy blue wool quivered with release.

Those were the dreams that made him think about therapy. A lot. 

But now, with every scrape of fabric against his skin bringing on another hissing moan, Ianto didn’t think about therapy. He didn’t think about how much knowing Jack, caring for Jack, fucking Jack had warped him beyond repair. All he could think about was how long he’d been left waiting and how damn good it felt and how badly he wanted – needed – to come. He craned his neck to peer out the open door way. No sign of Jack, not even the far-off thud of his footsteps over the scaffolding. Ianto took a breath, trying to calm the pounding of his heart in his ears. Wasn’t doing anything that wrong, was he? Jack said to get comfortable and there’s nothing that says “relaxed and comfortable” more than a good wank, he always said.

His hand crept down his body, caressing through the thick cloth, making the rough wool drag deliciously over suddenly alive skin and nerves. As his fingers wrapped around his cock with the wool between them and bare skin his hips jerked and a breathy sigh/gasp/moan broke from his throat. 

Ianto thought about Jack as he pumped into his fabric-lined fist. Thought about Jack walking in, standing in the doorway watching, watching him pleasure himself with his coat. In his coat. Thought about how Jack’s lips would part, how his eyes would darken as he stood there, slack-jawed and unable to look away. Ianto closed his eyes and imagined Jack there, awestruck, and tried to make it good, tried to play the part. He tossed his head back against the chair, lips wide and parted on an unrestrained moan, the coat falling open to show the sweat gathering on his chest. He rocked his hips in slow, methodical circles, teasing himself as much as the fictional Jack he was performing for. He whispered Jack’s name and watched figment-Jack cup and grope his own cock through his trousers. Good…God, so good…

“For fuck’s sake!” a voice exclaimed from the office doorway, far less aroused or – if Ianto was honest – American than the one he imagined, than the one he was expecting. Ianto’s eyes shot open and his head snapped up, already knowing who he would find there before his brain had time to process the data his eyes provided.

Owen stood in the doorway, paler than normal and staring with absolute horror at the sight in front of him. 

“O-O-Owen, it’s not what you – “

“Like hell it isn’t. There’s only one explanation for a bloke sitting in his boss’s office rubbing himself off with his boss’s coat and it’s pretty fucking obvious!”

“It’s…no, you see, Jack, he…” Ianto’s throat closed up. Words existed but he couldn’t quite remember what any of them meant or how they were supposed to help him in the situation. All the blood that had abandoned his brain for more southerly climes was now in use by his face, needed to turn him a lovely shade of red to contrast Owen’s shocked pallor. 

He couldn’t put words together to save him, but he had enough wherewithal to know that somehow this was all Jack’s fault.

“Yeah, Jack. Called to say I needed to review a file he left on his desk and I should swing by to pick it up. Didn’t mention anything about you getting one off with his wardrobe, though.” Owen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to erase the images of the last five minutes. “Christ, Ianto, if you’re going to be a pervert can’t you do it in the privacy of your own home? Spare the rest of us from seeing things we’ll never be able to unsee?” 

“Oh, go retcon yourself,” Ianto muttered as he swung his feet off the desk and, soon as he recovered from the pins and needles the reapplication of blood to his lower half caused, stalked off toward the lift, coat pulled tight around him to ward off the chill and Owen’s backwards glances.

Ianto made it up to the Tourist Office without committing hari kari or managing to die of actual shame, something that surprised even him. As he dug his clothes out of the file drawer he’d hidden them away in before retreating to Jack’s office the note that had provided his ill-conceived instructions fell to the floor. Ianto bent to retrieve it, hoping to dispose of all evidence of the event (in hopes the others would dismiss Owen’s ramblings as drunken insanity, which was why he planned to hit the CCTV next), and noticed for the first time that something was written on the back of the paper as well. As he brought the scrap close enough to read, four words in Jack’s nearly illegible handwriting glared out at him:

“Gotcha right back, baby.”

Ianto crumpled the note in his fist before turning to the camera in the corner behind his desk. Somewhere, he knew as he tossed the paper into the rubbish bin, Jack was holed up watching that feed and feeling damn pleased with himself. Ianto smiled, an evil genius smirk that would’ve made Mr. Hyde proud.

“You realize, don’t you, that this means war?”

 

In a little-used room in the bowels of the Hub, Jack grinned at the image on the laptop’s screen.

“Bring it on.”


End file.
